Masquerade
by Midasgirl
Summary: Pure sap :) Christine is at the company's annual masquerade ball ... but when Raoul is called away unexpectedly, who knows how the evening might turn out?


A/N - Well, this is a short sappy fic :) inspired predominantly by the masked ball in Maya's masterpiece "Who said love wasn't blind?" Beautiful story :) Everyone go read it!! Stuff from there is used in this fic (sandalwood, etc) but Christine isn't blind :) So, this is for her - *hugs* Thank you, hon :)

Be warned, this is total and utter sap :) and so probably light years out of character :)

For Christine's costume, I'm thinking long white dress, tight round the waist and billowing out round the bottom with a white eye-mask and angel wings, and for Erik's, regular evening wear, (I know, I know, very unoriginal :p) and for his mask, think a black version of the one Charles Dance wore - for those of you who haven't seen the film, there's a good picture here http://www.netcomuk.co.uk/~mdownes/cdhome/erik28.jpg)

Masquerade

A messenger entered the crowded ballroom and glanced around, cursing softly as he realised the impossibility of recognising anyone while the entire company was masked. He approached a young woman with a cascade of chestnut curls tumbling down her back, dressed as an angel with a small white eye-mask, and said softly,

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Mademoiselle, but would you happen to know where I could find Monsieur Raoul de Chagny?"

She glanced curiously at him and nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd.

"He was here a moment ago ... Raoul!" 

Catching sight of a handsome young blonde man making his way through the throngs of dancers, she waved at him to come over.

"Raoul!"

Raoul smiled and handed her a glass of champagne, offering his own glass to the messenger, who smiled politely and refused, before his expression turned serious.

"I'm afraid I come as the bearer of bad news, Monsieur ... I come directly from your brother, Philippe."

Raoul glanced anxiously at Christine. "Philippe? Is he all right? What's happened?"

"There was an accident this afternoon while he was out riding ... I'm afraid I don't know the exact details, but his valet requested your presence as soon as is possible."

Raoul passed a hand distractedly over his hair. "Yes, of course ... I'll come at once."

He glanced back at Christine, suddenly realising that his leaving now would mean she would spend the remainder of the masked ball without a partner.

"Christine ... I'm so sorry."

She smiled wryly and shook her head. "It doesn't matter. There'll be other balls ... your family is what's important right now."

Raoul beamed and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm so glad you understand," he said, brushing his fingers lightly through her hair before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Christine, dressed in a long white dress with angel's wings, stood alone by a large white marble statue, feeling somewhat out of place and rather silly without a partner. She took a sip of her drink and glanced around the room, her eyes briefly settling on Meg, dancing with a young Spanish aristocrat who had arrived only this afternoon for the special gala performance. Her friend's face was shining with excitement as she giggled vivaciously at something her partner had said. Christine smiled faintly; Meg always said that she wanted more than anything else to fall hopelessly in love, in the manner of one of the unlikely heroines in the cheap romantic trash novels she was always reading, and from the look on her face, it looked as if she might come close to achieving that goal before the night was out.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft voice of James, a young English tenor who had recently joined the chorus of the Opera Populaire. His face was hidden below an elaborate red mask, but there was no mistaking his voice with the distinctive English accent, or the customary diffidence in his manner as he addressed her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé ..." he began nervously. "I know it perhaps isn't my place to ask, but I noticed that the Vicomte left in rather a hurry ... and I wondered if you might care to dance?"

Christine smiled and nodded, accepting his hand as he led her out onto the dancefloor. 

"In fact, I'm rather glad you asked," she admitted. "I was beginning to feel a bit of a spare part standing there all on my own when all the other girls have partners!"

James laughed. "Not at all," he assured her. "Actually, it just makes you look even more mysterious; the prima donna standing alone with a glass of champagne ..." Christine laughed and waved his words aside, but he shook his head. "No, Mlle. Daaé, I'm serious. For all the young ladies in this room, you are without a doubt the most sought after by the gentlemen this evening."

Christine went pink and shrugged, a little unsure of what to say. James, as if sensing her discomfort, changed the subject. "It was a truly beautiful performance," he remarked. "You were in as fine voice as I've ever heard."

She smiled faintly. "Thank you," she murmured. 

She was prevented from saying more by the quiet, vaguely familiar voice of a gentleman standing just to her left. 

"May I cut in?" She glanced up sharply, trying to place the voice to one of the cast or the aristocracy who frequented the performances and failing. James nodded politely and stepped back, allowing the stranger to take her hand and guide her to a more secluded part of the ballroom. Christine looked at him with no little curiosity, but the mask he wore covered his entire face and she still could not quite place the voice. They moved together for a few minutes in awkward silence before finally, her partner leaned forward and murmured in her ear, "You know, there's a gentleman standing just behind me who'd sell his soul for a dance with you."

Christine glanced over her partner's shoulder and went stiff with shock. "Nadir?" she hissed. "Is that you?"

Her partner nodded and spun her around to facilitate her view of the man standing just inside the shadows behind Nadir, wearing an immaculate black dress suit with a white dress shirt and a black mask which came down from his forehead to cover his entire face, leaving only his mouth and chin visible.

"My God," she murmured. "He must be mad! They'll kill him if they find him here!"

Nadir shrugged. "I imagine he thought his life cheap ... I have no doubt that he came here this evening hoping to pluck up the courage to ask you to dance." He glanced back at Erik, who was staring at Christine with something halfway in between desire and an emotion he could not quite fathom. "Evidently he has not yet found that courage."

Christine pulled back slightly, caught off balance by the intensity of emotion burning in Erik's eyes as he watched her dance with his friend, suddenly very thankful for the white eye-mask which prevented Erik from realising that she was watching him. "Would you mind ...?" she murmured.

Nadir laughed softly and released her. "Of course not." She took a few steps away from him and faltered, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. His voice checked her. 

"Mademoiselle ..." She turned back to look at him. "Be gentle."

She nodded and flashed him a brief smile before turning her attentions to Erik. She made her way over to him slowly, formulating what she was going to say in her head.

"Monsieur ..." she murmured, her eyes lowered with a coyness that would have done Scarlett O'Hara credit, and silently praying she would be forgiven for this shameless manipulation, "I can't help but notice that you don't seem to have taken a single dance all evening, and I wondered if perhaps ... you would care to honour me?"

His relief was palpable; evidently, he didn't realise that she had recognised him through the black full-face mask he wore.

She could see his hands tremble, his eyes cloud over, sensed his brief inward struggle as he fought with himself, wondering whether he dared to accept her offer under the relatively safe anonymity of a masquerade. His eyes cleared as he gave her a curt nod and, after a moment's hesitation, offered her his hand and led her out onto the dancefloor.

Christine's heart went out to him as his arms came around her with a timidity that prevented him from holding her as closely as she could sense he wanted to, an old-fashioned formality underlining his natural grace as he began to move in time with her.

They danced in silence for a few moments, Erik evidently too nervous to speak lest he betray his identity, Christine suddenly acutely aware of his intense physical nearness, the tightly-leashed power in the arms that held her more gently than any other man's had that night, the soft musky scent of sandalwood drifting from his clothes and wrapping her in a warm cocoon of his protection.

Suddenly aware that he was watching her, she tilted her head back slightly and blushed; his eyes were deep with emotion he rarely allowed her to see. For once, the rigid wall of self-control he barely ever allowed down had disappeared, and for a brief moment the intensity of his gaze made her go weak.

She felt her heartbeat double as he moved ever so slightly closer to her, felt her legs grow unsteady and a wave of warm dizziness that owed nothing to the heat of the crowded ballroom swept through her as he bent to kiss her.

But the instant his lips touched hers, he jerked away with a violence that caught her off balance and turned to disappear into the seething crowd. She clutched wildly at his sleeve, knowing that if she allowed him to leave now, she might never see this side of him again; the side that was neither Opera Ghost, nor Phantom, nor Angel of Music ... the side that was sublimely human - the side that loved her.

"Erik, please!"

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had made a mistake. She clapped her hands over her mouth, as if to cram the words back in, to shield Erik from the knowledge that she had known it was him all along, to protect him from her shameless deception. 

He turned back to her, very slowly, and she realised that the visible part of his face had gone completely white. 

"_What?_" he said, his voice shaking.

She flinched under the incredulous disbelief in his voice.

"I ..." she said inanely, reddening again. She glanced around, more to escape the piercing intensity of Erik's eyes than to watch the other guests, suddenly realising that almost everyone standing around them had stopped dancing and was staring at them with ill-disguised curiosity. Erik had noticed too; the hunted look was back in his eyes, and she could see his gaze flickering around him, looking increasingly trapped, seeking any chance of escape. She took a step forward and grasped the fine linen of his sleeve, feeling every muscle in his body stiffen at her touch as he automatically pulled away from her.

"Let's go somewhere where we can talk, all right?" she murmured, taking his arm and leading him out through the throngs of people, most of whom were now staring at them with no attempt to disguise their interest.

Once they were out in the darkened hall, she felt him relax somewhat as he withdrew his arm from hers and gestured for her to lead the way. The irony of her leading the Opera Ghost around his own Opera House was not lost on her, and under other circumstances she would probably have laughed.

They made their way in silence to Christine's dressing room, but once outside, Erik stiffened. Christine laid her hand on the doorknob but he caught her arm and signalled her to wait. Sure enough, a moment later she heard Meg's high-pitched laughter and the low, melodic voice of the young Spaniard with whom she had been dancing earlier coming from inside the room. Christine stifled the urge to laugh; Meg's evening must be going well if they had already found the need to seek somewhere more private than the floor of the ballroom to talk.

Erik touched her lightly on the arm again, before withdrawing his hand hastily and signalling her to follow him. 

He led her to a small, disused dressing room with little more than a tattered couch and a dusty mirror over a dressing table in it, and ushered her in, pausing briefly to close the door behind them and light the one small gas lamp.

Christine sank down onto the couch, suddenly very nervous and uncharacteristically unsure of what to say. She heard Erik take in a sharp breath, as if he were in pain, and glanced up at him. He turned away from her, and slipped his cloak off, draping it over the mirror so that the glass was hidden from view.

She sat down again, waiting for him to speak, suddenly terrified of what he might say.

He turned briefly to look at her, before moving to stare out of the window at the dark sky, dotted at intervals with stars. Then finally, to her intense relief, so intense it left her limp, he began to laugh. 

"I must be losing my touch," he said wryly. "I didn't realise you knew who I was."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Come now, Erik - of all the men in that ballroom, you must have realised that you were the only one I would only recognise in a mask!"

He smiled briefly, then his expression turned serious. "Christine ..." he began, stopping as his uncertainty became obvious. "I ... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ..."

A wave of relief swept over her. It stood to reason that Erik would be embarrassed and afraid of her reaction to his so far letting down his self-defensive barriers, but if that was all ...

"It's all right, Erik," she said softly. "You heard no complaints from me."

She saw him stiffen, could almost feel his spirit withdrawing from her as he fought not to read too much into her words.

"Erik," she said suddenly. "May I ask you a question?"

He glanced at her and nodded briefly, suddenly looking trapped again.

"Why did you come to the ball this evening? You said you wouldn't be there ..."

He laughed softly, the sound carrying out the window and dispersing among the stars.

"You forget, my dear, that I am the infamous Opera Ghost ... I almost feel I am bound to appear at such events ... in my official capacity, you understand."

"Oh, don't be absurd!" she said, rather more sharply than she had intended to. "It's just the sort of thing you hate, crowds of people, all those lights ... for someone as claustrophobic as you, it's hell on earth!"

He glanced back at her. "I'm not claustrophobic," he said quietly. "_Homo sapiens_ phobic, perhaps ..." He turned away from her to stare out of the window again.

She sighed and rose to stand beside him. He stiffened instinctively at her sudden proximity, but for once she ignored his obvious discomfort, trying to work up the courage to lay her hand over his. Her courage failed her, and instead she touched her fingers lightly to the windowframe, struggling for the right words that wouldn't make him run from her.

"Was it because of me?" she asked finally, looking up at him. He made no reply, turning away to run his fingers along the frame of the mirror, careful to ensure that the cloak remained draped as it was.

"Isn't that a rather arrogant assumption to make, my dear?" he asked finally, still not turning to meet her eyes.

"Yes," she said without embarrassment, encouraged by his evasion of the question. "Is it correct?"

"Let me guess, you've been talking to Nadir," he said slowly. "I didn't realise you'd guessed who he was, either."

She laughed softly. "If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have noticed you at all. Watching people in the shadows without their noticing seems to be your speciality, you really must teach me how you do it one day."

He laughed shortly, and turned back to look at her.

"Why did the Vicomte leave so early?" he asked suddenly.

Christine shook her head to clear it, slightly thrown off by the sudden change of subject. "He - his brother was injured in a riding accident earlier today, and he only just got the news." She sighed. "Poor Philippe ... I hope he's all right."

"I should have thought it would have made life easier for you if he wasn't," said Erik coolly, turning to walk across the room.

"What?"

"Well ... once Philippe is out the way, the sole material obstacle to your marrying the Vicomte is gone. Surely that would make life easier for you." He didn't turn to face her as he spoke, his voice flat and expressionless.

"Marrying ... marrying Raoul?"

His shoulders rose and fell briefly before he turned back to face her, his eyes empty.

"Did you think I hadn't noticed? Come now, Christine, I'm not completely blind." 

Her temper rose without warning. Erik was constantly putting two and two together and coming out with an answer somewhere around six hundred where Raoul was concerned. "You must be, if you think Raoul has any designs on me whatsoever! We knew each other when we were younger - we're just good friends, that's all!"

Erik laughed derisively, a faintly bitter sound utterly devoid of humour.

"If you say so, Christine ..."

"I do say so, and more than that, it's the truth!" Her anger died as suddenly as it had flared up, and she moved across to him, gripping his arm with one hand and forcing him to face her. "Please believe me, Erik," she murmured, her eyes searching his for some sign that he believed her. "I swear to God, I have no interest in Raoul except as a friend."

He studied her face closely for a long moment before finally, his eyes softened and he nodded slowly.

"All right?" she asked gently. 

He smiled and nodded, turning away from her to stand by the window again.

"It's a beautiful costume, by the way," he said suddenly, turning to look at her. "You look lovely."

She blushed, touching her fingers lightly to the wings. "I thought it was quite appropriate," she said shyly. "Just in case you did decide to come ..."

He smiled faintly. "Very appropriate," he agreed softly.

She had unthinkingly drawn close to him again, and on a sudden impulse she reached out and touched her hand to his upper arm. Instantly he pulled away with a sudden bolt of startled panic that would usually have been enough to make her back away, but this time, acting on a sudden impulse, she reached up to kiss him, one hand on his shoulder, the other drawing his face down to hers.

She felt him start at the sudden unexpected contact, but as her lips closed over his he stilled and his hands drifted almost unconsciously to her waist, resting lightly on her angel costume as she brought one hand up to touch his face. 

When they broke apart, he hastily withdrew his hands from her waist and backed off a few steps, evidently trying to regain a little composure.

"I ... I'm sorry," he murmured automatically, passing a hand over his black mask as he tried to slow his breathing.

Christine cursed silently and shook her head, taking a step towards him even as he backed away from her. 

"Don't be," she said quietly. "Please." 

He went still, staring at her with an expression that made her want to cry; utter disbelief mixed with a faint automatic wariness born of a lifetime's rejection.

"I don't understand," he said finally.

"No?" she said gently. "I thought it was reasonably obvious."

He passed a hand over the mask, his eyes closing as his heart fought against the lifelong wariness of his intellect.

Christine took a tentative step forward, laying her hand gently on his arm.

"Erik?" she murmured.

He opened his eyes to look at her, and in that one brief moment, his heart triumphed, vanquishing the instinctive warning flickering in the back of his mind.

She reached out cautiously to touch his face, and the contact broke some final restraint in him. To Christine's relief he reached out hesitantly and took her gently into his arms, his face against her hair.

She looked up at him and smiled, removing her white mask and dropping it to the floor as she reached up to kiss him again.

***

The papers all called it a "fairytale romance" - France's most promising young soprano disappearing for several weeks, and returning after having wed a complete unknown, a gentleman who remained a mystery even after their return to Paris and her triumph on the stage. 

In the same week, the prima ballerina at the Opera House, Meg Giry, married a young Spanish nobleman, whom, it was reported, she had met at an Opera House masked ball, and went back to Spain with him where she danced in the Spanish Opera Houses and raised a beautiful little girl, named Christine after her former partner when they had danced together in the Corps de Ballet at the Opera Populaire.


End file.
